Final Fantasy - All Series Fan Fiction ❯ A Nostalgic Kind of Thing ❯ Only Chapter ( Chapter 1 )

A/N: I don't own them, nor do I know where the hell this came from. I also don't like the ending, but shit happens. Music to listen to while reading? Dishwalla's Candleburn.

I still miss them, even today.

It's a nostalgic kind of thing, I suppose. Every once in a while, I'll see or hear something that will remind me of them. And it'll hurt worse than any experiment, or any wound I could ever receive. It still hurts.

From the window in our little hotel room, I could see the moon. I could smell the breeze carrying in a distant smell of fresh air. It made me think of the nights where I'd lay between them out on the grassy plains in the middle of the night, counting the stars. We'd lie for hours, and just talk... Or not, it never really mattered whether there were words or not. And when it got chilly, they'd press against me and kiss over the top of my head, even though it made me feel even shorter. I'd snuggle against one of their chests, and there was always the push of warm muscle and comfort at my back.

We'd fall asleep against each other on nights like those. Like this one.

Sighing, I turned back into the room.

When it got too cold, we'd come inside. The beds would be made nicely, waiting to be torn apart during a pillow fight, and we'd throw ourselves across them and wrestle. Sometimes we'd go take a hot shower together, and I would lick the water from one's shoulder blades while the other washed my hair. I was always in the middle. And I adored both of them.

And they adored me.

It was perfect. Or as close as you could get to perfect.

We'd come back into the room and continue wrestling, completely naked and not caring. Then it would turn into something more, and we'd battle another way. They both tasted drastically different, but good in their own ways. One, like alcohol and expensive cigarettes... The other, like menthol. Some nights they'd be gentle, and we'd slide against each other, caressing anything we could reach. I'd be prepared, sometimes for minutes at a time, and when it finally came down to it, it was so blissful that I never wanted to stop.

Others, we'd shag each other until our ears bled, reaching and clawing, biting, anything we could do to reach our climax as quickly (and as many times) as possible.

Regardless, afterwards, we'd lie, whether on the floor or the bed (or in the bathtub, or across the desk...) and explore. Nothing too sensual... just memorization. I can still recall the way their skin slid under my fingers when I ran my hands down their bodies, one on either side. And, on several occasions, they wouldn't be able to resist attacking me, and I'd roll and tumble and giggle myself to tears until their fingers relented against my sides (and hipbones, and legs, and knees...).

And then, when I woke up in the morning, they'd always be there, no matter what.

Because that's what's important.

Or was, anyway.

I ran a hand over the comforter on the bed, then crouched and inhaled its scent.

No cologne, no soap... Not even sweat and after-sex.

Just a moldy kind of unfeeling scent.

Tears pricked to my eyes at the realization; at the reminder of the loss.

I was down by two and the only one left. It wasn't fair. I was still heartbroken, and despite the attention from my group of comrades, I felt completely and utterly alone.

For the first time since I'd lost the both of them, I let the tears spill down my cheeks, warm and bittersweet, and as I flopped down onto the bed, I held the ghost-feeling of their arms around me close to my heart.

Unfortunately, I had nothing to remind me of that.

Not anymore, anyway.